


When Your Left Hand's Free

by starbuckedlovers



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/M, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-24
Updated: 2016-09-24
Packaged: 2018-08-17 02:49:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8127491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starbuckedlovers/pseuds/starbuckedlovers
Summary: Bucky discovers that there's really a lot you can do with a metal arm when you're in hiding and bored out of your mind.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Author’s Note: So last night when I was falling asleep I was thinking about Bucky masturbating, and I just kept thinking about that metal arm.... and then with Sebastian’s comments at WW Austin today, I couldn’t resist writing a short riff on this idea. May G-d have mercy on my soul.
> 
> PS - If you like this let me know, also find me on Tumblr at thebrooklynfile.tumblr.com  
> PPS - Black Kat Plums are a real thing and they are uber fucking delicious, you can read about 'em here: http://www.davewilson.com/product-information-commercial/product/black-kat-pluot-interspecific-plum

Being on the run after the destruction of Shield and the demise of Alexander Pierce was proving surprisingly boring. Apart from one or two random run-ins with Hydra agents, Bucky had mostly been able to survive under cover with few issues. Passing from DC up through Philly, Baltimore, and New York City and hopping a plane from Schenechtady of all places, he had finally landed in Europe.

At long last he arrived in Bucharest where he began to feel relatively safe that no one was following him anymore. Steve had been diverted by the whole Ultron debacle, and Hydra agents well... most of them were pretty stupid to put it politely. So Bucky decided to hang around Bucharest, where he seemed to feel strangely at home for reasons he couldn’t quite put his finger on. He found a divey little apartment with newspapered windows, a molding bathroom, and unfortunate issues with rodents, renting it from an ancient woman who might have been even older than he was.

But the price was right, and since his landlady could barely see it was unlikely she would ever be able to sell him out to anyone. He tried to keep to himself but of course life was a bitch, and he found himself embroiled in some trouble one night coming home late from the local open air market. He had been trying to find that vendor he loved who sold the black kat plums. They were insanely delicious, more delicious than any plum he had ever had, and he was mildly addicted to them.

He was sort of getting addicted to anything that involved pleasure and free choice actually. When he was the Winter Soldier and the fist of Hydra, he hadn’t had many options to do things like choose his own food, sleep when and where he wanted, dress himself, select his own reading material, or even (god help him) masturbate. So now that he could finally relax and perhaps because he was being bombarded with the strange and sometimes unsettling memories flooding back to him of his former life as Bucky Barnes, he found himself unable to control himself at times.

Overindulging might have been the word his ma would have used, only this time it wasn’t chocolate bars he was craving.

But to make a very long story short, he had been coming home from the market, black kat plums in tow, when he had come across some of the local thugs that were terrorizing the neighborhood. His ears pricked up at the sound of loud voices and yelling coming from down an alley. His whole body tensed as memories flooded back to him, a small blond haired boy, down on the ground surrounded by older teens, kicking viciously at him, screaming and spitting, and the boy gamely trying to not cry out...

When he came to himself, he was surrounded by the bodies of thugs on the ground, most of them moaning and some of them not moving. He was breathing hard through his nose, the knuckles on his right arm split open and bleeding. He looked up and saw two men running away, out on the street already and passing out of sight.

“Th--thank you,” an unsteady voice said from behind him.

He turned and saw a young person of indeterminate gender behind him, shivering in a baggy shirt and jeans. They had short hair and a ball cap on, and their lip was bleeding profusely with a shining black eye starting to appear on one eye. He guessed that they were about 12 or 13 years old, although he would probably be the first to admit that he was a poor judge of age.

Bucky looked around himself, trying to ground himself in the here and now, freaking out about blacking out, and what it meant that he couldn’t control himself...

A soft hand landed on the elbow of his flesh arm. He was startled that anyone would try to touch him, especially after what had just transpired. The young person was looking up at him, blue eyes shining, and he realized then that she was a girl and probably older than he had imagined.

“Are you going to be okay?” she asked him in heavily-accented Romanian.

That seemed like such a stupid, almost-Steve thing to say that he grinned in spite of himself. Why she would worry about him when she was just the one who had been attacked was beyond him, but at least it made him smile, bringing back fond memories of another tough-yet-tiny fighter. “Are you?”

She smiled and she looked so much like Steve in that moment that his heart ached for his best friend, for home, for what he could never have again.

“These goons don’t scare me,” she replied.

One of the aforementioned goons was groaning and rolling around on the ground. Bucky walked over to him and put a foot on top of his chest, not too hard but just so he would make a point. The man stared up at him, clearly wondering if he was about to live or die.

“You don’t come around here anymore,” Bucky said to him. “Understand?”

The man nodded, clearly terrified. Bucky wasn’t sure if he would listen to him, but it was worth a try.

When he turned around, the young girl was picking up a brown paper bag from a dark corner of the alley. He realized it was his plums and groaned internally. Great, just great. They were probably bruised and banged to hell by now. 

The girl plucked one out and looked at it with hungry eyes. The two of them wound up splitting up the plums sitting in Bucky’s small apartment, sitting and making aimless small talk, and afterwards he let her use his moldy bathroom to shower. She never complained about the mold and the goons never came around the neighborhood again.

But while getting rid of the goons had been great, it did nothing for Bucky’s boredom, which grew as each day passed. He fell into a routine, doodling in his notebooks in the mornings, paying attention to the news in case there were mentions of him which there never were, buying his black kat plums at the market, brief conversations with passer by's in the street who he never got to close to for obvious reasons.

Sometimes he would pass by a beautiful woman (or man) in the street, and they would smile at him and he would stare back, briefly caught up in remembering other days and nights, encounters with men and women that had all ended mostly the same way. Him buried in them or them in him, sucking cock or licking pussy, both equally appealing to his voracious sexual appetite. In Bucharest there was one particularly persistent woman, a red head who sold wares at the market, who stared at him each time he passed with a particularly toothy grin as if she would like to show him just how much she appreciated him buying journals from her stall.

And god how he would have liked to show her just what she did to him. But he couldn’t, wouldn’t, let himself be drawn into a situation where he could hurt someone else. Or draw trouble to their life.

So the situation stewed, and he became adept at getting himself off quickly, systematically, to “scratch the itch” and get rid of it in an efficient way so to speak.

But as the weeks dragged on and the snow set in and he could get out less and less, he started experimenting. It started one afternoon in December, him doodling in his journal. He was laying on his couch listening to the radio, a cheap thing full of static. But for some reason he had been able to get it tuned to a station playing Christmas music, and as he was doodling a face began to emerge from the paper, smiling back at him: Steve’s face.

And as it emerged, memories surfaced. A Christmas eve spent in the frigid air, huddled together in a fox hole in some god forsaken frozen forest he thought was called Bastogne. The Howling Commandos had been called in to support the 101st he believed, but his memory was fuzzy. They had spent the night drinking whiskey to stave off the feelings of cold and misery, and afterwards he and Steve had hunkered down, enjoying the brief respite together.

Most of the faces and events were a blur in his mind, dark at the edges and creased with age. What wasn’t unclear was image that popped into his brain next, Steve hunkered over him, his cock in Steve’s mouth, and the feeling...

How they didn’t freeze to death was a mystery, but his now half-hard cock was stirring in his pants, and he didn’t have any reason to not jerk off. There was nowhere he had to be, nowhere he even wanted to go. The market was closed because of the weather, and he hated the snow for reasons that were rapidly becoming apparent remembering the misery of the winter of ‘44.

He rubbed his cock through his jean pants, reveling in the feelings it produced. He wasn’t sure how many years he had lived as the Winter Soldier, how many days he had stayed awake, how many he had spent frozen, but those days had certainly not included masturbation or any type of pleasure at all. His masturbation sessions to this point had been perfunctory, fulfilling a need and nothing more. But the image of Steve’s sweet pink lips wrapped around him, that perfect blond hair bobbing up and down, was arousing an altogether different sort of need in him.

He rubbed his hand over himself, through his pants, gripping his balls down below and letting out a loud, low groan. He lingered over them, squeezing down hard, feeling how hot and desperate he was under the fabric. He remembered now how he had liked this in the past, the feeling of being gripped over his pants, how hard it made him.

He was stiff and tenting his pants now, and he popped the button open on his fly, sliding his hand down to grip his hard cock in his flesh hand. He gripped himself hard, feeling the overheated flesh. He slid a hand up and down experimentally, feeling aroused and needy. More images were coming to him, images of women and men of the past, but Steve now, Steve, Steve, Steve.

Steve as his skinny self, face close to him as their mouths slid together, trying to be quiet in their too-small apartment. This apartment in Bucharest, this was just like the one they had shared back then, tiny and molding, under heated in winter sweltering in summer, and perfect, so very perfect.

The cold air hit him as he sat up a bit from the couch, shoving his pants and underwear to the floor. He leaned back, sliding his gray Henley shirt up and teasing at his nipples. He gave a gasp as his left arm tugged at the nipple on the same side. The apartment air was freezing, and his metal arm had chilled a bit without him realizing.

And holy shit was that a sensation. His dick jerked upwards, pulled by a mind of its own as he tweaked and rubbed around his nipple, abandoning his right one and his right hand in favor of the left. He shoved his shirt up and abandoned it to the floor alongside his pants and underwear.

Experimentally he took his cock in his left hand, gasping at how the cold elicited a whole different kind of sensation than the flesh arm. He slid his his left hand up and down his cock, teasing himself and feeling the cold steel of it on his hot flesh. The arm itself had been injured in his battle with Steve on the helicarrier and a lot of the functions were no longer operating properly. As it was, it almost felt like a disembodied hand, a stranger, was stroking him. And after 50 some odd years of not being touched, that was a rush.

He stood up, leaving the couch for the mattress he had propped up on the floor, laying back and relaxing, spreading his legs and stroking himself with that metal arm. He closed his eyes and Steve was there, his face, those beautiful long eyelashes, that pert pink mouth, that cold and dark forest during the war long ago. He thrust up into his hand, wishing he had lube, wishing it was real, that he could be back there again with Steve sucking his cock like he was born to do it, loved doing it -

And _Oh Fuck_ , he was coming before he almost even realized that he was, held in that perfect tight metal grip, streams of cum shooting out and he kept on jerking himself through it. It was perfect, fuck, he jerked himself slowly now, coming down from the high, cum mixing in with his pubic hair and spilling onto his stomach.

He realized that his mouth was hanging open and that he was gasping for breath, his shoulder length hair sweaty against the mattress. His face felt hot and flushed and he imagined how he must look: debauched and fucked out. He whined a bit, jerking up against his hand again. He was already partially hard again and knew that it was probably going to be a long day.

After that, he was addicted. He would jerk off for hours in his apartment, procuring various types of cheap and shitty lube around town, jerking his hard cock and delaying orgasm until he just couldn’t hold it in anymore. His favorite position was to hold himself up on his shitty old mattress with barely any springs, hold himself up with his flesh hand and jerk himself into his metal hand, feeling it rub and slide perfectly as he thrust into it picturing himself fucking into a hot tight hole.

And almost every time memories flooded back to him: Steve on his knees, sucking him down his throat like he was the last breath of air in the world. Steve under him as he slid into him for the first time, that whimper Steve made as if to say “fuck so good,” the flush across his face, the pleasure burning in his eyes. He remembered himself sucking Steve off, the desperation of Steve’s hard cock in his mouth as Steve thrust into him, desperate and hungry for more.

And fuck but did it get him off every single time. After awhile he stops paying attention to the world around him as much, slips into complacency. So the day he goes to his usual stall to buy his black kat plums and sees the vendor staring at him across the way, a wide-mouthed, terrified stare on his face, and when he sees his own face splattered across the news, shortly followed by Steve crashing back into his life, it comes as a complete surprise.


End file.
